Johnlock smut, A Caring Hand
by MsAnnieOakley1
Summary: After Sherlock saves John's life, he realizes just how much he loves him, but doesn't think he feels the same so when he is sleep deprived and attempts to have sex with him, he is utterly embarrassed.


John regained consciousness with a pained grunt, some sort of material was tied tightly around his head, blindfolded him, and lengths of rope were strapped forcefully around his wrists multiple times, then down around the chair legs and ended with several intercut wraps between his ankles. He could, though, see about a centimeter underneath of the blindfold and noticed that he was in some sort of carpeted room, and someone was standing a ways in front of him. _Most likely the bad guy. Better not bother him, _John thought_._

His head was spinning and it took him a minute to remember what had happened: Sherlock and himself had been on the trail of a complicated bank heist when someone had grabbed John from behind and used chloroform to knock him out. Now here he was.

With he deep breath he was just about to start thinking about what he was supposed to do, when a sudden commotion erupted from about ten feet in front of him. A voice shouted, "He's here!" then the sound of a body hitting floor followed by rapid footsteps toward John, but before he knew what was happening, the chair in which he was strapped to was knocked over on its side cracking John's head against the ground with a sickening thud.

"Take another step and he dies." A very loud voice growled above him. _What the hell is going on?_ "I said don't move! I mean it!" the man screamed and John realized a gun was trained at his head. _Fuck. _

"Okay," the familiar baritone of Sherlock Holmes smirked, "hey John, you okay?"

"Just peachy you bastard." John answered jokingly, "but I do believe I am tied to a chair am I not?"

John could just imagine that annoying smile on his flat-mate's face. He loved that smile. "Excellent deduction Watson."

With a small smile John figured out what Sherlock was doing: he was buying time for Lestrade to get there. To aid he asked, "Please do tell me it is at least a nice chair?"

There was a sound of a footstep and suddenly John was lifted off the floor and set upright and a gun was point at his head. "What did I tell you!" The voice boomed and John noted that it was the man whom Sherlock had been trailed. The sound of a footstep backwards.

"Sorry, I was simply attempting to hear what my dear Watson just said. I mean he is speaking rather..." A pause. This meant the next word was supposed to mean something, "softly."

John had to speak louder, most likely so Lestrade could find them.

He repeated himself but this time much louder, causing the man who had the gun to his head to smack him with the butt of the weapon and send him sprawling to the floor again.

Just then the sound of a door being kicked in sounded and John estimated that twenty police officers stormed in and started screaming "lower your weapon". But the last thing that John could remember before he passed out was the feeling of Sherlock's cold hands working at the blindfold, then being blinded by light as his rescuer pleaded, "John, are you okay? Answer me!"

It had been two weeks since John had woken up in Sherlock's bed with a concussion, and several stitches across his forehead. His flat-mate had never really explained why he had been in Sherlock's bed and not his own, but John had let that slide. He liked sleeping in Sherlock's bed.

Now he sat in front of the telly on the plush couch that rested in the lounge of the flat with some neglected case files sprawled in front of him, and a muted telly flashing annoyingly in the background. He was on the verge of sleep when he felt long arms reach around the back of the couch then connect against his chest and warm breath against his neck.

"John." The voice rasped seductively.

"Sherlock?" He knew it was him by the cologne that wafted around him as the taller man knelt behind him and leaned forward over the top of the couch. Oddly he was very turned on just by this simple action.

"I need you." His baritone voice whispered, causing his lips to skim across the sensitive skin of John's flesh. His hands had begun to pull up on John's shirt so that his flat stomach was exposed.

"Sherlock, you don't know what you're saying. You're tired." It was true, Sherlock had been working so intently on cases that he had gotten less than six hours of sleep in the past week, but John couldn't resist the urge to reach back and ran his hand through those black curls that this man was famous for. Those soft curls that he could just melt into.

"No John," the man rasped and rose to walk around the side of the couch where he proceeded to crawl on top of John so that he was sitting on his lap with his legs folded on either side of John's thighs, "I have waited for this for so long." His voice was so soft that it was almost just a deep rumble as he leaned forward so that his lips were centimeters from John's lips. John noted, though, that as his flat-mate leaned forward, he could feel Sherlock's erection against his fastly growing one. "Since that first day that I met you." That was when their lips made contact.

John was pushed back into the couch as the larger man leaned against him, his lounge flickering hungrily between his lips, causing him to willingly kiss back. This only excited Sherlock more as his stripped off John's shirt like it was nothing and threw it across the room (which caused something to shatter) and began fiddling with the button of his jeans.

Now fully erect and leaking pre-come, John wish Sherlock would just do it already, but there was once problem: Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock," John panted and untangled his hands from the man's curls which he had unconsciously tangled in there and grabbed the man he's waited for about three years now's face, "Mrs. Hudson will hear-" the sentence ended in a moan as Sherlock's hand slid down the front of his pants and gripped John's bulge. "Sh-Sherlock-" another squeeze and John lost it: he leaned forward and Sherlock fell backwards off the couch where John landed on top of him, but this didn't last long for Sherlock rolled over which pulled John underneath of him where he pinned his hands and legs down.

There Sherlock was: pinning John against the carpet with his hands and knees, curls hanging messily around his face as a wicked smile crossed his face when he growled, "John Watson, the things I'm going to do to you."

John couldn't wait any longer, he had waited for years. He stretched up and sucked Sherlock's lip with made him fall on top of him while they kissed furiously. John's hands snaked under his love's shirt and paused kissing while he slipped it off his head which made him gasp at the Godly man's body: it was flawless.

Using this opportunity, Sherlock sat back and undid his pants and slid them down to his ankles, revealing designer's brand black underwear that were holding back an eager (and very wet) erection. With a flick of his wrist Sherlock reached into his underwear and pulled out his pulsing length and slid his boxers down so that they were reunited with his jeans.

Awestruck by how large Sherlock really was, John nearly came right there as the other man's penis bounced around while it's owner worked on John's own pants. But John was pulled out of his trance when he felt a hand tighten around his own erection, exciting a very loud moan from his mouth. "Oh, God! Sherlock do me now!" Then he reached up and grabbed those black curls and pulled him to him.

John reached down between their bare bodies that were now rubbing against each other and grabbed the other man's weeping appendage and began forcefully stroking it, using the slick pre-come as a lubricant. It pulsed tantalizingly in his hand as he stroked Sherlock's slit slowly with the tip of his thumb as he created rhythm in his motions.

Abruptly Sherlock let out an un-human growl and grabbed John's biceps and pinned them to the ground once again. "John," he moaned, "oh God John I love you." He stared down at the man with want in his ice blue eyes, "I need you inside of me. Right now." But then something crossed his face that looked like worry and he fell back on his knees, grabbed the closest thing his could find which happened to be John's shirt, and covered himself.

"I am so sorry. I-oh my God- John I-," He was wordless as he looked at the tan, naked man before him who was panting from want, "I-I don't know what came over me- I," he froze, shock playing on his face like he truly didn't know what was happening, "I'm so sorry." Then he stood yanked his pants up so that he was covered and ran off to his bedroom where he slammed the door and John heard him slid down the back of it to land on the floor and begin weeping.

Now there John was, naked with an erection lying on the lounge floor, propped up on his elbows and confused as hell.

Slowly he rose and pulled his own pants up and shivered as he realized it was freezing in the flat. But that could wait: aroused or not, he had to check Sherlock. So he began towards where Sherlock's weeping was coming from, trying to tread lightly but failing as he heard the crying come to a shuddering halt, and approach the door that he knew Sherlock was on the other side of.

He saw from the light leaking out from under the door that he was indeed sitting against the door, so squatting awkwardly (and painfully as his pants tightened around his pleading nether region) John figured he was level with Sherlock as he whispered, "Sherlock?" No answer. "Sherlock what's wrong? What happened?" Still no answer, just the sound of choaked gasps that come with deep crying that someone tries to stifle. "Did I do something that hurt you?" The worried man whispered almost inaudible at the thought that he had hurt the man he loved.

When there still was no answer, John rose slowly and placed his hand on the door for a moment before murmuring, "I love you too, Sherlock."


End file.
